I miss my dad.  I miss his voice, I miss his stupid jokes, I miss his passion for photography, and now no one takes our family portraits anymore…  I appreciate how important it was for him that we stay close to other family members; grandma, aunts, uncles, etc; always being dragged to visit some relative I barely know but I never complained because I knew it was important to him.

Life is just too short.  Plain and simple.  If you’re in an unhappy and miserable marriage or relationship, then say something and definitely do something about it.  The last thing you should do is to cheat on them.  You’re only hurting the ones you still love.  Let them go and be happy.  Or rediscover each other and also be happy.  For those with a living mom and dad, tell them how much you love them, and try to spend time with them whenever you possibly can.  Don’t wait until it’s too late.  I do regret not visiting them more and learn as much as I can about his childhood and hobbies, and so much more…

I miss you papa.

This man is not my dad. I wish with all my heart that I had a picture of my dad holding his granddaughter, just like I wish I had pictures of him walking me down the aisle all those years ago.

This man is holding his niece. He is my father’s identical twin brother and today is their 71st birthday. This is the 22nd year we’ve only been able to celebrate with one brother.

They were born in Poland in 1940, and my grandmother raised them solo for many years as my grandfather had joined the Polish Army in September 1939. For years my grandmother lived in fear, shielding her young sons, until finally they escaped, made their way to England and they finally met their father when they were 7 years old. From there they emigrated to Canada, to the prairies, where mention of their life there made my grandmother weep. Not years of Nazi rule, fear, war and terror, but their first year in Canada and the harsh conditions they lived in as the hired hands on a farm.

The next year they moved to Kemptville (or Oxford Station if you need to get picky) where they farmed until ‘the boys’ were ready to further their education. They then moved to Ottawa, where shortly thereafter my father got a job in the mailroom at an insurance company. The brothers both had an affinity for computers and technology, with one eventually looking after the networks at government research lab, the other working in the data centre for that same insurance company.

My uncle married first, in 1966, my parents a year later and I am the oldest of ‘the boys’ children. Between the two of them they have 5, alternating, and a year apart (more or less).

My uncle is now retired (or so he claims) and lives on his farm and orchard, with his wife and my grandfather. I get the distinct impression they keep him hopping.

Happy Birthday Uncle T. Have a wonderful day filled with love and family.

And Dad, I still miss you so much, your dry humour, quiet observations, that little teeny touch of redneck and the occasional kick in the butt when I needed it. I wish you were here to see what became of your punk-ass teenager.

My Pops passed away, at the age of 80, somewhere in Louisiana. It’s a mystery to us, still.

In Denver, a few years earlier, he took a new wife from Louisiana and together they skipped town, without telling me or my Mother (his ex-wife) where they were going. This was serious business, because for years my Pops, a well-regarded attorney, paid my Mother’s alimony, while offering legal services to a longtime, loyal client-base. But all that ended in the mid-1990s, when he disappeared without a word. His old friends and a private investigator (working to collect on one of his unpaid bank loans) called me, from time to time, looking for him and wondering if I’d heard from him. No, he never called.  I was at a loss, because I’d always been Daddy’s girl, until Louisiana Wife No. 3 came along. And it was Pops who taught me how to appreciate fine food, dragging me and my Mother all over the place to sample great restaurants in Denver, but also in Mexico, the Caribbean, Florida, New York, Las Vegas, Canada and everywhere else he felt like going.

After Pops disappeared from our lives, leaving an ugly trail of debts and heartache behind him, I lost my appetite for fine food. Not even my husband, the great natural cook, could tempt me. I lost weight:  the missing Daddy Diet. Then, in October, 1996, my Mother saw his obituary notice in The Denver Post, and called to tell me he’d died a few weeks earlier. Wife #3 placed his obit in the newspapers, so old friends, the family, and the bank could learn he  died – somewhere in Louisiana – and donated his body to medical science.

Several months after the shock of his loss, my husband, our son and I (our daughter was in college) decided to go to New Orleans to see if we could find out how Pops died. As I recall it, his death certificate said something like death from “heart failure” or “age-related illness”, and that was that. But we were in New Orleans, the City of musical funerals, and because we hadn’t properly grieved Pops, we decided to send him off in a way he might have liked. After retrieving his death certificate, we went to Paul Prudhomme’s K-Paul’s Kitchen. (see photo up top). On that day, K-Paul’s was almost done serving  (we were late, but we told the manager our story, and they served us anyway). We ordered a bottle of champagne and some sort of Cajun chicken dish or red fish (I was in a daze, so I can’t recall exactly), but we toasted Pops’ departure and wished him good luck on his adventures in his after-life. We considered this our “wake” for Pops. We ended the “ceremony” with a slice of Paul’s signature Pecan Sweet Potato Pie, and I remember that sensation to this day. Never tasted anything like it – so velvety rich and comforting.

Recently I ran into a vintage book,  Gourmet’s Guide to New Orleans by Caroline Merrick Jones, the November, 1965 version (18th printing, photo below). There’s no recipe for Pecan Sweet Potato Pie  (this was printed about a decade before Paul’s chefly fame), but you can still order his fine dessert on his website. Meanwhile, Gourmet’s Guide is a great cookbook to read at your leisure, as it pays homage to Cajun and Creole food, and the history of New Orleans as one of this Country’s greatest restaurant towns. I hope and pray the restaurant business has come back there, Hurricane Katrina and the Ugly Recession, notwithstanding.

During Katrina, and after, I felt tied to New Orleans, as if some member of my family had re-located there. And, I guess, in a way, he did.

Authentic Creole and Cajun Dishes from New Orleans

Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here. Daddy’s…

So many guys my age lament that “my dad was never around,” which is understandable when you’re 8 of 9 years old. By the time you’re in your 30s you should have figured out that Dad wasn’t avoiding you, he was working.  He was making sure you didn’t starve or freeze to death. This is a basic fathering duty that most men with kids feel in their bones. Provide. Food and shelter. Not entertainment.

This guy’s kids never feel abandoned. They also live in their car.

My Dad wasn’t a  little league coach. He wasn’t a member of the PTA. He didn’t carpool. He was at work. There were five kids, a mortgage, and a stay at home wife. I’ve mentioned his schedule in this space before. Six days a week. Twelve hour days. He wasn’t at work all that time because it was his calling, or his favorite activity.  He had obligations which he took seriously. You know what he never took seriously? Me, when I bitched that he didn’t spend enough time at home.  And he didn’t try to explain it to me. He was too busy. He gave me enough credit to assume I’d figure it out once I grew up.

Why does Dad go back out after supper most nights?
Maybe so we can have supper every night.

Let’s give our kids a little credit. We do want we can when can. If we miss the occasional open house at school or swim meet, the kids will survive. And they’ll forgive us when they grow up and it’s their turn to wish they could make a living going to little league games and dance recitals.

Thanks for reading. Tell your pals.
Chris Zito

Dad washing the sand off my feet, Queensland Beach, NS, circa 1972

Published in the Fredericton Daily Gleaner, Monday June 21st, 2010

In September my father will be dead 10 years. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long. Sadder still that as I write this, I remember how he never got to hold our Kathryn. He was gone nearly two years when she was born.

The old adage that ‘time heals all wounds’ is true for me.

Time has offered me a great gift. I no longer burst into tears at the thought of him, I no longer feel sadness when his name is mentioned, and I think I have a truer image of him now that I’ve had time to digest all that happened in his life, his illness and his death.

I loved my father, but a lot of times I didn’t like him a lot. He was opinionated and stubborn and could sometimes be rude. He liked to be right and liked to remind you when you were wrong. He didn’t like to sugarcoat things and oftentimes he was bossy.

But there was a sweet and funny side to him, too. He hated going anywhere without my mom. He loved babies. He would spontaneously grab you for a dance in the kitchen when a favourite song came on the radio. He used to shout and giggle when my mother would put her cold feet on him when they got into bed at night. He was the best whistler I knew, and turned into a little boy when he got dressed for a special event – asking Mom what tie went with what shirt.

He liked to play cards and when we were kids he’d let us win. He never said no when we asked for quarters for the store, and he always kissed my mother goodbye when he went to work … always … even if they were arguing.

I wanted to play guitar because he played guitar.

I loved how he knew everything about politics so I wanted to know everything about politics

He read the newspaper every day so I read the newspaper every day. And he knew everyone in our little community … and I tried to remember names of the people he introduced me to.

He volunteered his time to organizations, but also, more importantly, to individuals.

He was a godsend to a number of elderly people in his community. He shovelled walks and did yardwork. For a long time he helped one elderly man, Mr. Lewin, stay in his home. Dad made sure that when it rained, he was there to pump the water out of his basement. I loved him for that.

My dad and I shared a few little jokes too.

I’m adopted and don’t look like anyone in my family. Yet once, when I was visiting him at the fire hall, a man he knew stopped in to say hi and said something we found quite funny.

“Wow … does your daughter ever look like you, Doug.”

He was serious as he said it.

We gave each other a knowing look and Dad smiled widely. We giggled about his friend’s comments for years after.

Sometimes my dad would say things without thinking, turning something ordinary into a funny situation for my brother and me.

Once Dad brought us with him when he went to visit his brother at work. Our Uncle Dicky was employed with the local funeral home. Dad told us to go ‘kneel for a minute’ while he talked with our uncle.

Leonard and I had no clue who was in the casket. Weirdly, we weren’t scared, we just did as he said, said a little prayer and came back to the front of the funeral home to wait. I laugh about this until this day.

My dad was a firefighter for over 40 years. When I was no more than eight or so, we were at the station visiting and I snuck downstairs to the radio room.

I held my breath, pressed the button and then squeaked out the tiniest little “Hi” across the airwaves.

I ran upstairs just as the phone rang. It was the chief, Art Hindle, calling to tell my dad to get his daughter off the radio. I feigned innocence, and Dad winked at me. He knew what I had done but wasn’t upset.

In later years I helped him shop for my mom for birthdays, Christmases and for their 25th wedding anniversary.

And while he always complained about the prices of things, he never complained about spending money on her.

She received expensive sweaters and beautiful pearls and on their 25th year together, an anniversary ring with diamonds and sapphires, because he said the gems matched her eyes.

He knew her value and knew her love. And it was the same for her.

Sure he was impossible to live with most days, but she loved him. My mother always made Father’s Day special. I remember many of those days filled with feeds of lobster and special gifts – a lot of tools, if I remember things correctly.

My dad is gone, but he’s not forgotten, nor is he held on a pedestal. He was a hard man to love, but he had his good points too.

Time has afforded me the gift of remembering him just as he was … not just as I’d like to remember him.

I’d like to think he’d appreciate that.

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and diets in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook. You can also follow her on twitter at My_Big_Fat_Life.

This is not a futile daughter’s search of her long lost dad, because all my life I grew up knowing him so well.To begin with, I know just seeing me gormandizing everything that he’d cooked without forgetting to mouth my compliment  “You’re really the best cook in the world dad”, would just makes his heart flutter.

I know that once he gets home at night, he would avidly wait for his favorite action-packed show “basketball”. ”Chaos over the T.V program is inevitable as  I   hurriedly hide the remote control somewhere else   and get  to watch my unsurpassed “sappy  t.v dramas”. He never wins while I always end up sitting  at the sofa, grinning over  “Gilmore Girls” . I know that he is undeniably irksome on some days, and even gets more irksome when he’s drunk: he talks a lot, really annoying.

Lastly, I know and pretty confident that he would never care if I get highest or last in class. He ’s easy to please, never demanding and never pushy about high grades or academic awards. “As long as you pass, that is already enough for me”, he would used to remind me. Oddly enough, these are just some tangible truths that I know about my father. Truths, almost getting intangible and unreal. Truths that I am painstakingly trying to encrypt forever on my forgetful memory.

However, 2008 was a wretched year for me and my family.I realized that for some “God only knows” reason, people so dear to our hearts really do change, no one is spared, not even our own father.

Dad got involve into another woman, a younger one. I don’t want to delve any information of that impostrous home wrecker anymore. All I know is that she’s on her fertile 20′s while dad is on his 40′s and graying hairs. How is that?!

It was too heartbreaking for me, worst for my wailing mom.I cannot fathom why he would do something so unforgivable, so hurting just for what Paulo Coelho used to say “eleven minutes” of pleasure and deceit (whatever you call it). It almost tear me apart, my studies, my life. Yet, I know that the beauty in life doesn’t have to end for just one tragic event, that life without pain and difficulty, would be  just plain dull and boring.I just have to deal and make the most out of it.

Nevertheless, he never left me, financially I should say. But recently, it is harder to ask financial support from him this time because he got a new family to support.

The first time I saw him dotingly carrying his new baby was tormenting. A heart-attack, it almost gave me. Sooner or later, I had come to accept the fact that I’m “Daddy’s Little Girl, No More”. I’m 23, a young adult and a recently licensed nurse so  I should better get over it.

I rarely see him nowadays. He might be busy changing diapers and mixing milk. Often,I wonder if he’s really happy doing all those baby routines, things he just used to do 23 years ago.( two decades) If not for the reccurence of his parenting episodes, He should have been just basking along our yard, reading the newspaper.

Truth to tell, I never hold any rancor feelings towards him. Life is too short, too fragile to cling on to “hate and bitterness”. I just can’t help getting teary-eyed every time I think about him. Then I would realized how much I miss him. I miss him so badly and wish that all of these desolate events didn’t happen at all, that we can still watch basketball together, this time, “me” not hiding the remote control anymore.

What hurts the most, is knowing that things will never be the same between us. The tangible truths that I keep will just forever remain playing in my memory and almost fading. We can never have those tangible moments again, not even today, Father’s day.

It is my hope that you are having the happiest Christmas ever. Knowing you are with God puts me at great ease. Knowing you are happier now than you ever were on earth makes me happy for you.

You are missed as always. Today I could not help but think of you. Although you were never child-like (except for watching the occasional cartoon I remember you pre-opening your Christmas gifts a little before it was your turn. It still makes me laugh. Of course you always enjoyed spending time with the family. I could tell you were happiest during those times.  When Kay or Steve would leave, you would always urge him to come back soon. The same was true when I lived away before you became sick.

My heart is a little emptier this year, Dad, without you here. Mom is sadder, and I am sadder. Our whole family misses you terribly. You were always a strong person who, as you got older, continually worried about us all.

As you were growing up, your life had many challenges. Many people from your generation had those same challenges and some worse I am sure. You were the real deal. It makes me sad that they do not make men like you anymore, Dad, in that sense.  You were a hardworking person, who always made sure our needs were met.  I never had any worries.  They truly do not make men like you anymore. Since your passing, that has become even more apparent.  What a loss for us and a gain for God.

Even though things were rough and you were tough in many ways that were hard, you later apologized and made up for the harsh words and “discipline”. I am thankful for that. It takes a strong man to face his own weaknesses and you did. Thank you. In years to come our relationship was never completely easy…emotions did not come easy for you. That, in turn, did not make it easy for me either.  Although I saw more emotions over the years evolve from you. And I am thankful for that as well.

You used to tell me when I would leave for my apartment, “I love you, and don’t forget to pray.” I have not forgotten. My prayers were answered when God took you this year as you wished…at home, no suffering, no nursing home, in your sleep. If I had to lose you, that was the best way. I have not forgotten to pray, Dad, because I pray every night that you are in God’s loving care and happy.

Your last words to me are sacred. My life was better too, Dad, by you being in it. I learned a lot about why God and myself chose the relationship before I came into this world. It has been a soul experience for both of us I think. I love you too, Dad, …”more than you will ever know”.

I know you hated snow. As you loved to work so much, it is my hope you are in a sunny spot of Heaven and tending to a garden with beautiful crops or sitting under a shade tree drinking lemonade and visiting with others who have passed.

Mom and I are having good days and challenging days. I am sure Kay and Steve do as well. None of us really talk about it that much, because it is just too hard. Good days and challenging days…That is how it goes. BUT I am so thankful to God that we had you for so long. We are in good hands, Dad, with friends of yours.  Even strangers from out of the blue have assisted us. (Maybe you sent them; you always worried too much. )

I miss you, Dad, and love you dearly. You are never forgotten. Sometimes I feel you around me, and I know you are here now as I write this.  As long as God allows and you wish, I love having you around me. 

I hope your first Christmas in Heaven is glorious and peaceful for you.

I love you always,

Michele

Mommy said:

“He’s gone away”

I miss him,  she said.

Can I see his picture?

Can I send him my smile?

10 April 2006

My excavations prior to moving were exhausting, but nothing compared to the amount of work required on Mom’s home*.  DQ and Mom tackled one bedroom over the weekend.  While i was finishing up moving The Girl to her new apartment, i received a photo text message from DQ:

TXT:  This wuz under your dads mattress!

What a fabulous find!  Dated 1976, this magazine was likely confiscated from my older brother, who had gotten divorced  that year from his first wife, and had spent some time back at the ol’ homestead until he got back on his feet.

Somehow this made me deliriously happy!  No idea why, but i asked DQ to hang onto it for me… Just a belated glimpse into my Dad’s world.  And a big ol’ grin about a week before he would have turned 85…

________

* About 6 years ago, we launched a weekend ‘dig’ at Mom’s house.  Three teams were working through the clutter.  My sister, S, worked the spider-infested bedroom that used to be mine, my niece and her first husband worked the garage, and i was wearing leather gloves and waded through mouse turds and moldy cardboard boxes in the storage barn.  At the end of the day, we hauled three truckloads of decent stuff to Goodwill, hauled another truckload to the dump, and burned a mountain of old cardboard boxes.  Clearing out half of her garage was a major accomplishment.  We have no idea how she did it, but within 6 months, the garage was full again, with only a small path around the periphery… this is world class pack-rattery…. and i told mom that it made no sense for us to clear it out if she was just going to keep buying shit. 

Cupcakes

File this under BAD IDEAS

And, now for a funny Annabelle story:  We were eating dinner last night and Luke and I had put some pepper on our food.  She asked for pepper for her food.  As we sometimes do, we told her the pepper went night-night (just like Elmo goes night-night!).  So, she looked at the pepper and yelled, “WAKE UP, PEPPER!”